When Empathy Calls
On my way home from our family vacation, all I could think about was getting to sleep in my bed once again. As fun as a vacation can be, I typically start grumbling about pillow quality by day three. I guess that is what vacation looks like as you near 40.
While at the airport, a very flustered "grandma-like" woman was behind us in the TSA line. She was beyond frazzled and mentioned she was worried she was in the wrong place. She had been separated from her daughter at security, and it had REALLY thrown her for a loop. We asked her a few questions and reassured her that she was in the correct line.
After successfully making it through security, I saw the same woman getting her shoes back on and felt a tug in my heart to ask her if she needed help finding her gate. The moment was fleeting as my family started walking away. I chased after them and ignored the pull I felt in my chest.
An hour later, I saw her AGAIN, but this time in front of us, getting ready to board the same airplane to Denver. I felt relief that she had made it ok, especially considering my decision to completely ignore my heart's plea to intervene. Andy also noticed her and commented on how sad he was that her grandson had died.
I looked at him fast enough to cause a self-induced whiplash, "WHAT?!?" I exclaimed.
"Her grandson just died, and she is flying to him. She mentioned it in line behind me. Didn't you hear that part?"
Andy was standing closest to her in the TSA line, and I was so distracted getting the kids through it and answering their never-ending stream of questions that I—somehow—never heard the comment.
Sure enough, I looked ahead once agian to find her embracing her daughter (presumably the one she had been separated from) in a sobbing, tangled mess of arms and travel bags. My heart was in my throat, and I felt a hot wave of nausea wash over me.
The woman she was hugging, who looked like she could easily be me in 5-10 years, had just lost her son. He was GONE, and now she was headed to Colorado to come face to face with the worst pain this life has to offer. Her life had just SHATTERED. Her "normal" had disintegrated with a single phone call, and now she had to endure a four-hour flight to get to her son's body, while I was dreading a four-hour flight to get to my—pillow.
I felt the urge to start sobbing. My heart began to pound in my chest as the pain seeping out of their embrace filled the space around us. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to hug them, talk to them, take their pain away—do ANYTHING to help. But I knew I couldn't. I had missed the ONE opportunity where I could have provided some aid (even in the smallest of ways). UGH. I watched them enter the tunnel and wondered if my path would cross theirs again.
Throughout the flight, I got distracted by snacks, finicky iPads, and trying to calm my son, who is NOT a fan of flying. Every once in a while, and without warning, a massive wave of anxiety and dread would cover me from head to toe. I am no stranger to this feeling, as it accompanied the sickness and death of both my son and my father. It is a sensation I LOATHE. Trust me, if there was a greater word to explain my hatred for this feeling, I would surely use it here.
It's the sensation I got far too often when I was carrying a dying boy in my belly. Every morning when I woke up, there would be a split-second of reprieve as my mind lingered in the place between dreaming and waking—but then reality would punch me in the gut, skyrocket my heart rate, flush my face, and remind me that my son was, indeed—dying. It's the sensation I felt every time I thought of the cancer that was killing my dad or when I would witness him cry out in pain. It's the sensation I now get every time I picture their still bodies.
For over a decade, that feeling has been my body's response to the realization that my worst fears were not just a horrible dream—but reality. And now, out of nowhere, it was ruthlessly attacking me 30,000 feet in the air. Each time it washed over me, it took a moment to realize the surge of emotions was not for me—but for THEM. It was like I could physically feel their sorrow floating throughout the cabin, and my body's visceral response was in the moments that it touched me.
Halfway through the flight, I took Emersyn to the bathroom. While waiting by the door, I heard muffled sobs behind me. I discreetly turned to see the mom just two feet away, tears streaming down her cheeks from a pool I knew had no bottom. She was clutching her phone, her eyes fixed intently on the screen.
HIS PICTURES.
She was staring at his pictures. I don't know how I knew—but I did. In the weeks and months after Logan died, I did the same.
I had stumbled upon an intimate and sacred moment and knew it would be outrageously inappropriate to interrupt. So, instead, I prayed. I asked God to wrap his arms around her so tightly that she could physically feel His touch.
That was the last time I would see her. All throughout the airport, I scanned the countless faces for one of theirs, to no avail. I don't know what I would have done had I found them, but I looked nonetheless.
To those women flying from Orlando to Denver in June of 2024, should you somehow, someway find this post—I am SO sorry for your loss. I think I will remember you and your son forever, and I wish I had done SOMETHING to let you know you were seen and loved (even by a complete stranger). And to that sweet grandma—you deserved better from me, and I am so sorry I ignored what I know God was asking me to do. I will regret it forever, but because of you, I won't ignore that inner voice ever again.
Even now, the thought of those women fills my eyes to the brim with tears. I can't put a finger on WHY I needed to share this with you all, but I did. Maybe it's because I knew you would understand. Maybe I just needed to get it off my chest. Maybe—it's because I hope you will do better than I did and LISTEN when empathy calls.
Either way, thanks for listening.
Jamie
